


None the Wiser

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Incest, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:11:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4309998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin finds that sometimes not knowing has its own appeal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None the Wiser

**Author's Note:**

> I coupled a prompt in the kink meme with the mirrors/doubles square in my Season of Kink card.

He guessed Fëanáro was up to something the moment he stepped into the bedroom to find it entirely dark. All the lamps were screened, the heavy linen curtains were drawn, and not a single candle was lit in the candelabrum which stood on the table. It was the day of their weekly encounter, he knew he wasn't mistaken. He resolutely closed the door, shutting out the last of the light from the corridor, and stood there, wondering what his unpredictable half-brother had in store for him while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“Fëanáro?” he called as he moved in the direction of the bed, avoiding furniture to the best of his memory (it wasn't the layout of the room he usually paid attention to).

There was no reply at first, but he had the distinct feeling that he wasn't alone. He advanced until his feet sank into the soft rug at the foot of the bed, and stretching his arm he touched one of its posts.

“Not Fëanáro. Curufinwë,” a voice rang out from somewhere to his right, a rich, deep voice that sounded like his half-brother's.

“Over here,” another, well nigh identical, lured from the opposite side, making him start and whirl around.

His surprise, and the abrupt realisation that followed, was a fragile, ineffectual thing, manifesting in a stifled _'what-'_ before strong arms wrapped around his chest from behind, and strong hands cupped his face from the front.

“You're late,” the one behind him muttered.

“We were about to get started without you,” the second added, his hands gliding nimbly down his chest, and lower to undo the laces of his pants. 

He reflexively stepped back, but the other pair of hands slipped under his shirt. Together, the two stripped him, stopping to fondle and caress at will, while they cooed him and addressed each other in low muffled tones, and if he was at times sure the distinctively sharp inflection of the voice behind him meant it had to be Fëanáro's voice, at others the assertive note in the one which ghosted before his face and chest renewed doubt.

Once he was naked, and already more than half-erect, they pushed him towards the bed, and he dropped heavily on its soft woollen coverlet. Nothing happened for long still instants. He knew they were close, so very close, but they didn't touch him, didn't speak. He waited, his mind still reeling. His attraction to Fëanáro had as a matter of fact extended to the son that bore his name and took uncannily after him in looks, and he was aware that he had very likely not been able to disguise it. And yet to be with _both_...

“We know you want it,” he heard, and immediately afterwards perceived one of the two falling to his knees between his legs, forcing him to spread them, while the other climbed on the bed behind him, but only hovered there at first. 

A kiss was dropped to the tip of his cock. He had but a moment to wonder who exactly it was who knelt there, before the rush of pleasure as a tongue licked down the length of it stripped the question of its immediacy.

“You came here for this, didn't you, Ñolofinwë,” he was asked, calloused hands coming to rest over his nipples. “Let Curufinwë take care of you.”

His hips bucked at the mere sound of the name. The mouth swung back up and closed around the head of his cock. It settled into a steady caress, moving slowly up and down. His nipples were pulled and squeezed, and he shivered and squirmed in erratic jolts that had him thrusting into the mouth enveloping him. 

When he was close to losing control, it stopped, making him gasp and swear. Both once again retreated from him, and he sat there clutching the coverlet and panting, a slight tremor coursing through him, both anxious and eager for what they would do next. 

A lamp was unscreened on the opposite wall, sending a halo of light at his feet. He lifted his head. They stood side by side, there on the rug, both naked, and though their faces were still obscured, it was easy for him to tell them apart, because Fëanáro was a little taller, and Atarincë somewhat leaner.

“So...Ñolofinwë,” Fëanáro began, modulating his voice to that velvety huskiness he knew incited him the most, “who would you like to have now?”

The question was a challenge as much as an invitation. He stood up, his feet treading on his own discarded clothing. The fact that he was taller than both allowed him to make out their faces then. He paused to study them – Atarincë's hooded lids carried a hint of defiance, and Fëanáro looked supremely self-satisfied. His eyes skimmed lower, to the hand with which Fëanáro clasped Atarincë's shoulder, and over their chests to the one Atarincë curled around his father's hip. 

He didn't reply. He still couldn't have told who had been sucking him, but he realised he didn't really care to know, because now he understood what the darkness had offered him. He took a step forward and pulled them both towards himself. Their free hands met behind his back, locking them in a two-fold embrace. 

“But it is obvious,” Atarincë whispered, brazen presumption joining defiance in his eyes,“...he wants us to screen the lamp again and take turns with him, so that his world begins and ends with Curufinwë...is it not so, Ñolofinwë?” 

To have them both, unknowing, oblivious to everything else. 

Fëanáro's mouth stretched into a grin. 

He nodded.


End file.
